


Perfectly On Time

by Romantic_Liar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (implied) Louis Tomlinson/Eleanor Calder, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Hiatus, Sad, She's never explicitely mentioned though, but you know it's her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romantic_Liar/pseuds/Romantic_Liar
Summary: "And you don’t care if you’re about to make a complete fool of yourself, you don’t care if you crash into people on your way or if you’re soaking wet because it started raining, all you know is that you have to run faster, get there before it’s too late."Or: where Harry reads a suspicious tweet and realises he has to go back /home/





	Perfectly On Time

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first ever thing I post on this site, and one of the first things I wrote in English.  
> This is unbetaed, so I'm sorry for any mistakes. 
> 
> Disclaimer; I don't own any of the people mentioned, also none of this actually happened, my mind is just weird.  
> Enjoy :)

_ "I can't say how every time I ever put my arms around you, _

_ I felt that I was home.” _

_ \-- E. Hemingway _

 

You feel like your knees are going to fail you if you go any faster and yet here you are, sprinting through the swarms of people flooding the streets, straight to the main square in front of the airport while you look for a cab.

You’ve just landed: you took the first -very overpriced- plane from LA to London as soon as you read the tweet on your feed. It was a simple “Finally” followed by a ring emoji, staring at you from the screen of your phone: nothing big, nothing fancy; something that you could have easily missed if you weren’t paying enough attention. But how could you miss it, or ignore it, when there was  _ her name _ on top of it? The tweet was gone a few minutes later, disappeared into thin air, and you almost thought you imagined it, hallucinated it after yet another sleepless night, but deep down you knew it was as real as the pain you’re feeling in the middle of your chest. Real or fake, though, it helped you realise that you were willing to do anything to stop them, to get  _ him _ back.

 

So you did the only thing you know how to do:  _ you ran _ . 

 

Here you are, many hours and several mental breakdowns later, on the other side of the whole fucking planet carrying just your passport and his house key, and nothing else. You run, keep running like your life depends on it -and it probably does, ‘cause you know that if he marries her you’re not gonna be able to function properly ever again- and you don’t care if you’re about to make a complete fool of yourself, you don’t care if you crash into people on your way or if you’re soaking wet because it started raining, all you know is that you have to run faster, get there before it’s too late.

 

You see a cab in the distance and you take all the strength left in you to reach it before someone else does, eyes watering from the effort, lungs burning from the lack of oxygen. When you get there it feels like a thousand hours later, the muscles in your legs on the verge of giving out as you hold onto the metal of the vehicle for dear life, aware that if you let go you’ll end up on the floor. 

The driver asks you if you’re alright but you don’t answer, you can’t. You just crawl in the backseat and croak out the address where he has to take you, hoping, begging that it won’t take long because you’re so anxious and nervous and distressed that you feel like you’re gonna pass out any minute and ruin your life forever. 

It takes longer than an hour to get to his house, because it’s raining and the traffic is a nightmare as usual, but you eventually get there.

When you do, though, you realise you don’t even know what to do: you want to ring the bell, yet the keys to his front door are burning a hole through the pocket of your skinnies. 

You thought you lost the bad habit of biting your fingernails back in X-Factor, but apparently it’s back in all of its glory, panic eating away at your brain as you stand by that damn door, staring at it so intensely in hopes that it will give you the answer you’re looking for. 

It’s a few minutes later, even though it feels like centuries, when you whisper ‘fuck it’ and slip the key in the hole, twisting it: your mind is clouded and confused, the action of opening the door and closing it behind you seeming way more difficult than you thought it would be.

 

The house is weirdly silent: no Tv noises, no music, nothing. All the worst possible scenarios pop up in your head; what if he’s not home?  _ What if he’s with her _ ? 

 

** “Who’s there?” **

You hear his sleepy voice coming from the hallway and you swear your heart misses a beat -or twenty- before starting to thump in your chest relentlessly, threatening to break through your ribcage. He stands a few feet away from you, an old t-shirt too big on his small frame, eyes wide as he recognises your features through the dim light. 

** “Lou,” ** is all you manage to choke out, chest heavy with words you want to say, yet unable to let them out, the lump in your throat making it harder to speak, to breathe, to think. 

** “Harry.” **

You swear the last time you heard your name spill from his lips was two and a half lifetimes ago, even though in all fairness it was only about a year since you two last spoke. He takes a few deep breaths, opens and closes his mouth multiple times searching for the right words, his eyes never leaving yours.

** “Why are you here?” **

** “Please,” ** is all you manage to say as the familiar sting of tears forming in your eyes distracts you from everything except him, his presence making it hard to  _ function _ properly, leaving you stupid and speachless just like the first time in that toilet, seven years ago. All you want to do is drop to your knees and beg him not to marry her, crying and pleading and praying that he’d take you back, but you’re unable to move, petrified as his blue eyes pierce through your soul. 

** “You were supposed to be in LA.” ** he whispers matter-of-factly, his barely audible tone giving you the impression that he’s talking more to himself than to you. You just blink repeatedly, trying to make your brain react, your eyes see clearly, not really sure if he wants a proper answer or not. You settle for a simple  ** “I’m not. I’m here.” ** , seeing him shift lightly on his feet, battling with himself in his head like you know he does when he’s stressed. 

** “Why, though?” **

_ ‘Because after seven fucking years and several failed relationships later, I realised that I’m still completely, hopelessly, stupidly in love with you and I don’t want you to marry someone else. I don’t want you to marry her.’ _ is what you want to say, but the words that come out of your mouth are different:  ** “I took the first flight home.” **

 

Home. 

Funny how such a small word can hold so much meaning. It was a code you had, back then, when it all started: whenever one of you would feel upset or lonely or missed his family, the other one would go there, wrap him in a hug and whisper something along the lines of “It’s fine, you’re home. We’re home.” and suddenly everything was a little brighter, a little more bearable. You two were like jigsaw pieces falling into place, perfectly linked and secured to each other in that embrace, knowing that you were each other’s home. 

And apparently he still remembers, because suddenly he looks at you as if he heard the words you wanted to say even though they never left your mouth. 

** “Home?” ** is all he asks, a glimpse of hope flashing through his irises, his voice filling the air as his question pushes past his lips and into your ears, carving itself into your brain. 

** “Home. If it’s not too late, that is.” ** and you’re the one hoping this time, praying that you didn’t misread the signals, that everything is gonna fall right into place. 

** “You’re perfectly on time-” ** he states as he takes a couple of steps towards you, closing the distance between your bodies as he wraps his arms around you just like he used to do when it all started,  ** “-always are.”  **

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this is a bit shit!  
> I'd love to read what you have to say about it, anyway. xx


End file.
